


Nelson

by belladonawritings



Category: Watchmen (Comic)
Genre: Anal Sex, Choking, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Outdoor Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-27 19:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10040957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belladonawritings/pseuds/belladonawritings
Summary: Stop saying my name. Stop caring. If you do it too often, I'll believe you. And then what? Written for FTH, for Jamie!





	

                Even in the dark, he never takes off his hood. I don’t mind. The face behind it is one of a stranger – I suppose that should bother me, but it doesn’t.

                “On your knees,” comes his voice, accent as undecipherable as ever. I should hesitate. Should, should, should. So many questions. Here, in an alley, face bare and my costume miles away – it isn’t safe – but I fall to my knees anyway and raise my chin.

                The rain is still falling in fits and starts, dripping out of the gutters and through the cobblestones. It’s soaking through the knees of my trousers. It makes the black silk cling to his set jaw. I can almost see a face. Almost.

                “Nelson,” he whispers, almost too quiet to hear. He knows my name – I don’t know his. That’s how it works. He raises his hand to his neck and pulls the hangman’s noose over his head, and I close my eyes, waiting. The rope twines around my throat and tightens, jerking upwards towards him, and I swallow in anticipation.

                “Open your mouth.”

                “Yes, sir,” I reply, and obey, eyes opening a fraction. One of his hands is rummaging with the folds of his costume, and then he pulls himself out, his cock only half-hard. I know better than to be offended. It’s a challenge.

                Still, I can’t help but shift myself, trying to ignore my own erection, the way I’m straining against my trousers. My hand sneaks into my lap, squeezing –

                His closed fist smacks into my cheek, the punch only pulled enough to avoid knocking me out completely. My vision blacks, then clears, and I try to pull in a breath through the noose that is pulling tighter and tighter, pulling me up and up until I face him – It’s not enough to stop me from seeing that he’s fully hard now, a drop of precum beading at his tip.

                I pull my hand from my lap, and the apology bubbles to my lips. “Suh-sorry. Sir.”

                The noose loosens, and I cough, my breath a little easier. I hope he hasn’t left a bruise. I hope he has. He grabs my hair, and before my heartrate has had the chance to calm down, his shaft is in my mouth, tip shoving past my teeth. He fills my mouth and more, making me choke before even half of him is inside me.

                I look up at him, eyes watering, searching for an expression past the hood. Nothing. Perhaps a spark of grim enjoyment. Perhaps that’s just me. I loosen my throat, and in response, he jerks me roughly back and forth, fucking my throat without mercy, his gloved hand entwined in my curls. With a push that makes me gag, he slides deeper into my throat, and then his balls are pressed against my chin, my lips stretched until I think they might tear. I gag on it, hands squeezing his thighs, desperate for air. After a moment too long, he lets me go, and I cough some more.

                The thought – intrusive, unwelcome – crosses my mind that I’m not the only one he does this to. It coils like a jealous snake in my abdomen, but I don’t have any sort of space to complain. We’re not partners. We’re not lovers. I’m only his leader when he accepts it, and certainly not here, on my knees in the mud, barely grown.

                His hand finds my chin, wiping away strings of drool. I close my eyes and imagine he means the caress as a moment of affection. It’s easy to imagine. “Good boy.” He touches the swelling bruise by my eye. I can explain it as a punch from a criminal, a badge in the line of duty, but when he presses his fingers to it like a kiss, I feel like everybody will be able to see it for what it is.

                “Fuck me,” I beg, and it’s somebody else speaking. “Please.”

                He tugs on the noose in response, leading me to my feet. I know the drill. I face the wall, bracing my hands against the wet stone, letting my chest rest against the cold. My nipples are stiff enough as they are, but through my shirt that’s getting more and more soaked by the minute, they’re raw against the wall. The rain is carving rivulets down my face, curls plastered to my face.

                He takes his time with me. First he teases my erection through my trousers, alternating between rough squeezes and gentle touches until my eyes are watering again and I’m bucking against his hands, desperate for more. Then slowly, he unclasps my belt, undoes my fly, and pushes my trousers down, pulling my hips against his. I can feel him against me, stiff and wet from my mouth.

                He holds the noose tight, and even if I wanted to leave, even if I backed out now, he has me right where he wants me. He presses his massive body against me, and I can feel his cock pressing at my entrance. It hurts – it hurts it hurts _it hurts –_

“It’s okay, Nelson,” he whispers, and for a moment, a horrible moment, he’s gentle, he’s easing into me even though I’m whimpering with the pain (and we both like pain, I don’t know what I’m complaining about), and he keeps murmuring comfort into my ear, until he’s sheathed inside me, too big, too much too much too much –

                “Shush, shush,” and his voice is so _gentle,_ and I don’t know _why,_ but he kisses my ear while I adjust.

                “S-stop,” I whimper. He moves his hip a little, and I realize he’s going to _stop –_ “Stop caring,” I whisper, and thrust my hips back against him. He gets the message, and shoves me against the wall. He starts fucking me properly, and I squeeze my eyes shut to stop them from watering. It hurts, it hurts, it _hurts –_ I want _more,_ I want it to stop, I want all of him – his hand’s at my crotch again, silk on my throbbing cock, and I try to hold on but then it’s too late, and I’m coming on his hand, on the wall, and he holds me up as easily as if I was made of porcelain.

                My head’s ringing. I barely feel it as he pulls out of me, but I can feel the strings of his cum drip down my legs. I don’t remember feeling his orgasm, but I’m so out of it I suppose that’s natural. I think maybe I hear something else – “I love you” or “Good boy” or something else fake and comforting – but I ignore it.

                It’s not like it matters anyway.

 


End file.
